


Kelly Wainwright, Professional Fixer

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: F/M, M/M, Tabloids, a day in the life of Kelly, blind items
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If I want to go to work in my underwear, then I’m going to work in my underwear. You can’t make me get dressed.”</p>
<p>Work for Gustavo Rocque, they said. It’ll read great on your resume, they said.</p>
<p>She so did not go to college for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kelly Wainwright, Professional Fixer

  
_7 AM_  
\---

  
“You don’t look like you’re ready to leave.”  
  
Kelly drops her cell and keys on the counter, because it’s hard to appear stern clutching a smart phone.  
  
“That is a keen observation,” Gustavo retorts, a coffee cup cradled in one meaty hand, the LA Times brandished in the other. “But _wrong_. Take me to my record studio.”  
  
“I’m not taking you anywhere until you put on some pants.”  
  
Gustavo glances down, takes in his squirrel-print boxers, and then looks up again. “My sartorial choices are none of your business.”  
  
Slow, calming breaths. Those are the key here. She will not beat Gustavo to death with the latest issue of the LA Times, because she is too pretty for jail. Kelly inhales, exhales, and then decides it’s too early for this mediation shit. “Don’t pretend you forgot pants on purpose.”  
  
One of Gustavo’s temper tantrums is brewing on the horizon, she can already tell. Kelly needs the reinforcement of caffeine to deal with it. Coffee. Coffee would be good. She goes about prepping her own cup of joe in a mug from the most magical place on earth.  
  
“Pants are society’s way of keeping the man down,” Gustavo declares, taking a large gulp of his own coffee. The cup’s half sugar and milk, exactly the way he likes it. Kelly slides onto one of the kitchen stools, her java black and fortifying, ceramic hot against her hand. This should be good. Gustavo says, “If I want to go to work in my underwear, then I’m going to work in my underwear. You can’t make me get dressed.”  
  
 _Work for Gustavo Rocque_ , they said. _It’ll read great on your resume_ , they said.  
  
She so did not go to college for this.  
  
“You are absolutely right,” Kelly agrees.  
  
If she had a real job, this would be a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen, but despite all his bluster, Gustavo is about as physically threatening as a ladybug. Kelly’s been babysitting his five year old psyche for years now. Chances are high that his stubborn streak has nothing to do with putting on a show for her. Something is up.  
  
She continues, “We should dub this Lingerie Tuesday. Everyone at the studio can strip down. I hear Tom-the-janitor goes commando.”  
Immediately, Gustavo’s face screws tight with disgust. “Maybe I’ll put on some pants.”  
  
“That would be a good idea. What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong. Choosing to say no to clothes is not an early warning sign of anything.”  
  
Kelly levels Gustavo with her most penetrating gaze. No one is actually intimidated by it other than Gustavo, Carlos, and Kelly’s three year old niece, but it works its magic here. Gustavo slumps.  
  
“The dogs seem down.”  
  
“Seriously? You’re staging a protest against pants at seven in the morning because the guys were a little touchy at rehearsal last night?”  
  
This is her life. It is a family comedy gone awry.  
  
Gustavo glowers morosely at Kelly’s knee, unwilling to challenge the Wainwright-Armor-Piercing-Glare. Kelly tries not to feel like she’s kicked a puppy. She sighs. “I’ll talk to them.”  
  
“While you’re at it, convince Carlos not to wear his helmet to the next production meeting.”  
  
Yeah. Right.  
  
Kelly rolls her eyes and takes a long sip from her mug. “I can’t perform miracles.”

  
\---

  
_8 AM_  
\---

  
“I’m having a crisis.”  
  
“Don’t you have a therapist for that?”  
  
Mercedes crosses and uncrosses her legs, skin slipping and sliding as she rearranges her miniskirt. “My therapist needs a therapist. If I have to hear about her marriage issues one more time, I’ll retch. You’re wise. And a woman, and stuff.”  
  
“Last time I checked,” Kelly replies, more focused on the forms in front of her than Mercedes’s problems. Today, she has to get Bitters’ approval for rights to film a Behind-the-Scenes look at the guys’ personal lives for their next Concert-on-DVD Extravaganza (with bonus karaoke sing-along). Mr. Bitters has roughly the attention span of a gnat, so Kelly needs to make sure she’s got everything she needs clearly marked.  
  
Another cup of coffee may be in order.  
  
“Joseph says-“  
  
Kelly flashes one palm to Mercedes’s face. “Hold up. Who is Joseph?”  
  
“Pay attention. Joseph’s my boyfriend.”  
  
“The smelly dude with the guitar?”  
  
Mortally offended, Mercedes recoils, “He doesn’t smell.”  
  
“He reeks like a medical marijuana shop.” Kelly decides to actually invest some time in this conversation, pushing her forms away. “What does Joseph say?”  
  
Mercedes enunciates each word with inordinate amounts of distaste, explaining, “Joseph said that he wants to inhale the good shit and exhale the bullshit.”  
  
Kelly is getting remarkably good at translating stoner speak. She’s not sure if it’s a side effect from college or from living in LA, where everyone from surfers to record producers have a little green in their pocket. “Was that his way of asking you to go on tour with him?”  
  
“Duh.” Mercedes tosses her hair over her shoulder. “What do I do? I mean, have you ever been on a tour bus? The water pressure in the showers is abominable, and there aren’t even close to enough outlets for my electronics. Forcing a girl to live without her hair dryer is barbaric.” She pauses for dramatic effect, really letting the savagery sink in before she forges on, “The only real benefit I can think of is sex anytime I want it.”  
  
“Isn’t the rest of his band coming along?”  
  
“Do you have a point?”  
  
“Maybe it’s a little inappropriate to, uh, in public, and-“ Mercedes is staring at Kelly, blanker than a fresh notepad. “You know what? Never mind. Get on with your kinky self. The question here, Mercedes, is do you like Joseph?”  
  
“He scores great bud.”  
  
“That is good to know, but not what I asked.” Kelly straightens her desk to avoid meeting Mercedes’s eyes. There should be a rule about asking for couple-advice before noon. “Mercedes. Sweetie. Have you ever been in a relationship for more than, uh, how long have you two been together?”  
  
“A year. And please. The chains of monogamy have never been very good at holding me down,” Mercedes replies, completely sincere.  
Kelly worries about her. Being Griffin’s progeny has to be a total mindfuck.  
  
“Do you like Joseph?”  
  
“I don’t want Obdul to punch him in the face. That’s real progress.” Mercedes examines her nails, running one finger across a ragged edge that might actually be a chip. It’s as close as Kelly’s ever seen Mercedes Griffin to showing actual concern.  
  
Aw. How sweet.  
  
“Go on tour with the boy. You’re eighteen. You’re supposed to do crazy things when you’re young and in love.” She says it with a hint of wistfulness, but Mercedes misses it. She is Mercedes, after all.  
  
Brightening, the younger girl asks, “You think so?”  
  
“You’ll never know if you don’t try.”  
  
“Great. You’re a really good listener.”  
  
It’s as close to a thank you as Kelly’s ever going to get, so she takes it in stride, nodding her acceptance.  
  
Mercedes gathers her things, and then pauses. “By the way, if I come back in dreads, wearing patchouli, I will destroy you.”  
  
“Of course,” Kelly replies amiably.  
  
No good deed goes unpunished.

_\---_

  
_9 AM_  
\---

  
“How’s my boy?” Static crackles over the connection, barely obscuring the party sounds. It’s nighttime across the globe, and Babylace is throwing down.  
  
Kelly grimaces into the receiver. “Kendall’s not actually your son.”  
  
There’s a pop and a splash, and Kelly ardently hopes the rock icon’s security team is doing their jobs. Rocque Records hasn’t had time to take out a life insurance policy on the man that will cover all his touring expenses yet.   
  
“He’s not picking up my calls.”  
  
“He had your number blocked,” she explains kindly.  
  
There is a long pause, punctuated with a slurping noise.  
  
“I remember when I met his mother,” Babylace reminisces, throat husky with emotion or cigar smoke. It’s really hard to tell. “She was a vision. Birds like her don’t come around too often in this life, Candace.”  
  
“Kelly. My name is Kelly.”  
  
“Whatever you say, Cordelia. You make sure that son of mine is eating all his vegetables. He’s going to grow up to be a big, strong musical legend, just like his papa.”  
  
The ping of tiny objects on tile rattles through the speaker. Someone yells, “Babylace, you are the heavyweight champion!”  
  
Kelly fervently does not want to know.  
  
“I’ll tell Kendall you called. Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Babylace?”  
  
“Not now, dear, I’ve got a python to wrestle.”  
  
She opens her mouth to pontificate on what a bad idea that would be, but all that greets her is the flat line of a phone disconnected.  
  
Maybe she should push through that life insurance policy sooner, rather than later.

_\---_

  
_10 AM_  
\---

                
“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”  
  
“Carlos, Carlos, stop. Stop moving!” Kelly struggles to keep his head still, which is really hard seeing as how she’s sprawled on top of one of the company town cars. Carlos wiggles and squirms, his neck caught between the glass and rubber siding of the moon-roof, which decided fortuitously to get stuck the second Carlos popped through it.  
  
“Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow,” he chants, shimmying his feet and straining for traction. “ _Kelly_.”   
  
“Just hold still and we’ll get you free,” she instructs, panting. This is totally going to get grease stains on her uber-professional skirt. Damnit.  
  
“Soon?” Carlos pleads, turning his big cow eyes on her, brown and huge. “I’ve got a date with the Jennifers.”  
  
“All three?” Kelly demands incredulously.  
  
Carlos nods with vigor that does nothing to help the mechanic working on the sedan’s electric work him free. It does, however, remind Kelly that she made Gustavo a promise this morning. “Off topic, why were you and the guys in such a mood last night?”   
  
Carlos’s lips turn down. “I wasn’t in a mood. That was Kendall and James.”  
  
Shocker. Carlos is too sweet to ever be truly bummed out, and Logan’s pretty happy as long as he has some decent reading material. James is the only one who throws diva fits every time he has a chance, and Kendall inevitably lets them get to him. Kelly should have known.  
  
“What’s wrong with them?”  
  
“I wasn’t going to ask. I like living. Owwwww,” Carlos whines. “I’m going to have squish-neck on my date, Kelly!”  
  
“Squish-neck isn’t a thing,” Kelly tells him fiercely. “Stay still! I have to talk to you about your helmet…”  
  
Carlos steadfastly refuses to budge on wearing his helmet to production meetings, but Kelly didn’t expect that he would. Carlos needs his safety blanket, specifically for moments like this. He wails and glowers and wriggles about for the twenty minutes that it takes for the mechanics to free him from the town car’s moon roof, and the ten more after that where Kelly attempts to carefully apply concealer to his new bruises so that he can take all three of the Jennifer’s out to lunch. By all rights, the day should be completely over at this point, but no.  
  
Kelly’s just not that lucky.

_\---_

  
_11 AM_  
\---

  
“Please sign the forms.”  
  
“Taking your money makes me feel dirty on the inside.”  
  
“You’ve never had that problem before.”  
  
Mr. Bitters sniffs and straightens his blazer. “It’s called an epiphany. People have them. People change.”  
  
“Could you change after you’ve signed the form?” Kelly waves it in his face. “Come on, you can use my pen. You like my pen.”  
  
She brought her niece’s Harry Potter quill exactly for this reason. Bitters falters. “I do like your pen.”  
  
“So…” Kelly prompts, letting him get a nice whiff of the stock paper she used to print everything on. It smells of office supply stores and ink, which she’s pretty sure are the hotel manager’s favorite things.  
  
“Yeah, no, sorry. I can’t in good conscience surrender my newfound morality.” Mr. Bitters rings his little bell and yells, “Next!”  
  
Kelly is shoved out of the way by a family of four and their garish Hawaiian shirts.  
  
Fine. She’s going to have to resort to Plan B.  
  
Conveniently, she finds Jett Stetson hurrying across the poolside in slanted sunlight that cuts his body into golden triangles. She flags him down with a whistle. He heels obediently, glancing about for the source, so pretty and so dim. Kelly marches up to him and jabs a finger in his face. “You.”  
  
Jett bats his eyelashes. “Would you like an autograph?”  
  
“No,” she replies firmly. “I need to talk to you.”  
  
“I don’t do…talking,” Jett says, wrinkling his nose.  
  
“You do now. You have to talk to Mr. Bitters for me.”  
  
“Why would I do that?”  
  
“Because you’ve got his ear, according to basically everyone.” Basically everyone actually means Katie Knight, but she knows more than, well, basically everyone, so.  
  
“We had a falling out.” Jett sniffs. “Besides, I can’t. I have places to go, things to do.”  
  
“Oh, you booked a job?” Kelly asks, genuinely happy for him. She likes it when Hollywood’s young stars do well for themselves, even when they’re little douchebags like Jett Stetson. “Congratulations.”  
  
“No,” Jett draws the word out. “Camille Roberts wants my help with rehearsals. She said we’re going to play dodgeball. With forks.”  
  
“Dodge the kitchen utensils is not a game.” She drops her face into the palm of her hand. “Look. Can you please just tell Mr. Bitters to let us use the Palmwoods for an hour?”  
  
Jett crosses his arms. He has very muscly biceps. “What’s in it for me?”  
  
Earnestly, Kelly suggests, “My eternal gratitude?”  
  
He shakes his head. “That’s not shiny enough. I’d like a watch.”  
  
“A watch,” she repeats.  
  
Her bewilderment must show. Jett explains, “Punctuality is the mark of a classy man.”  
  
“Can’t you use your phone?”  
  
“I don’t have a phone. I have a Jared.”  
  
“What’s a Jared?”  
  
“Jared is my personal assistant. He handles all of my appointment things.” Jett adds, “Jared used to be a Melanie. I fired her and she came back a boy.”  
  
Kelly ignores that stray tidbit of information, spotting something else she needs to deal with across the pool. Absently, she asks, “He calls people for you too? Your friends?”  
  
“I don’t have any,” Jett replies cheerfully. “But I could really use a watch.”  
  
“Fine.” Kelly shoves the form and her niece’s quill into Jett’s arms. “Get Mr. Bitters to sign the forms and I’ll get you a watch.”  
  
Before Jett can answer, she’s hurried over to the nearest lounge chair. There’s a glass of lemonade sitting on a tiny wicker table. Kelly considers long and hard.  
  
Then she pours its contents on the chair’s occupant’s face.

\---

  
_12 PM_  
\---

  
Watching James splutter and flail, Kelly says, “You need to make up with Kendall.”  
  
James glares up at her, yellow clinging to his eyelashes. He’s laid out on his lounge chair in swim trunks and nothing else, which Kelly would allow herself to enjoy if it didn’t feel distinctly like checking out her younger, more obnoxious brother. He says, “No. Kendall doesn’t appreciate me.”  
  
“James, don’t be ridiculous. Kendall adores you,” Kelly replies, plopping down on a dry space on his chaise. James’s skin is sun-warm, even through the fabric of her skirt. She basks in the chance to lean back against him in relax.  
  
This shouldn’t be a hard conversation. She means what she says. Kendall adores James for reasons that Kelly has never quite understood, because James is a ball of _pretty_ and _ego_ , while Kendall is this paragon of virtue and pragmatism. They shouldn’t click, but they do.  
  
Just like the protagonists of every bad romantic comedy Kelly has ever watched.  
  
James, unfortunately, doesn’t get that. He continues to sulk. “Oh yeah? Then why didn’t he tell me that he and Jo are getting married and he’s quitting the band?”  
  
“Says who?”  
  
“Uh, everyone?” James slams a tabloid rag down on the wet wicker table.  
  
It’s one of the smaller outlets, open to their blind item page.  
  
“Which one of these am I supposed to read?” Kelly asks wearily, eyeing a particularly exuberant declaration that an Oscar Winning Best Actor is actually a hermaphrodite bound to have his Oscar ripped away for gender falsification.  
  
With more ferocity than is absolutely necessary, James punches his finger at a single, tiny paragraph. In italic print, the paper exclaims:  
  
 _This young pop sensation and sexy starlet have rekindled their flame! Sources close to the sensual singer say that he’s done sowing his wild oats; he’s ready for roots. That means – yes – there’s a wedding in the works, folks, at least if his sweetheart can find the time away from her supernatural soap to accept his proposal._  
  
Kelly glances up through her eyelashes, taking in James’s stricken expression. “Why do you think this is about Kendall?”  
  
“He’s a pop sensation. Jo’s on a supernatural soap opera. They’re getting married,” he finishes plaintively.  
  
“This could just as well be about Jason Riever and Serena Martinez. He sings. She’s on Witches of Laurel Canyon. They break up and make up every other day. Even then, it doesn’t mean it’s true. No one reads the-“ she flips the magazine to the front page. “Hollywood Herald. I’ve never even heard of the Hollywood Herald.”  
  
James presses his lips together in the very defined manner that means he’s attempting to think and finds it very painful. He is such a lovely boy. It’s a real shame that he was probably dropped on his head as a child. Really goes to show that no one can be beautiful, rich, _and_ bright.  
  
Minutes tick by before James’s shoulders relax, lines smoothing out on his forehead. “You think?”  
  
“I think if Kendall was getting married or quitting the band, he’d probably tell…well, the band.”  
  
James nods benevolently, brimful of sudden confidence. “You may have a point.”  
  
“Great.” Kelly clasps her hands together. “So you’ll stop fighting with Kendall?”  
  
He cocks his head, examining an empty space in the air with such great focus and intensity that Kelly is compelled to check if anything is actually there. He decides, “No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“When I asked him why he was being such a douchebag, he told me to go fuck myself. I’m not forgiving him until he forgives me.” He juts out his lower lip and says insistently, “He shouldn’t have called me names. I was only trying to tell him that he’s not allowed to get back with Jo.  
She keeps leaving him and making him sad. I’d never do that.”  
  
“Of course you wouldn’t, Kelly says soothingly. She keeps her eye roll to herself.  
  
 _Boys_.

  
_\---  
1 PM_  
\---

              
“I want a private jet.”  
  
Kelly sighs into her phone. “Kat.”  
  
“I _deserve_ a private jet.”  
  
Kelly thinks the same thing about herself, frequently. She keeps it to herself, commanding, “Okay, now explain to me why you think that.”  
  
“Boys keep stalking me into the airport. I know that I’m fabulous, but this is getting ridiculous.” Kat makes a disgusted noise. “All that waiting in line while I stand there, all innocent and defenseless? It’s dangerous, Kelly.”  
  
“We can hire you bodyguards.”  
  
Kat ignores her, going, “-and what about the ease of travel? Getting from place to place is hard, and I need to be in control of my own destiny.”  
  
“Yeah. Thing is, you’re fifteen and we don’t have the budget for jet fuel.” Kat whines pathetically, the sound interspersed with static. Kelly  
rushes to appease her. “How about we buy you a car? It won’t help with your airport situation, but I have some thoughts-”  
  
“I thought you’d never ask. I’m thinking a coup.” Kelly blinks. She was thinking more like a Kia or something. “Make it a Benz. Thanks Kelly!”  
  
Kat hangs up on her.  
  
Kelly stands in the hallway in front of 2J and stares at the blank screen of her phone for long, long minutes on end. She asks 2J’s door,  
“Couldn’t she have just asked for the car in the first place?”  
  
That probably would have been too easy.

\---  
 _2 PM_  
\---

  
She’s still trying to get over the part where she was manipulated by a teenager when she approaches Kendall, slightly more snappish than usual. “Do me a favor and talk to James.”  
  
Kendall glowers at her. “James is a prissy princess and we’re not speaking right now.”  
  
Majoring in teenage boys would have been so much more useful to her than that pesky Business Administration degree. “Kendall, be reasonable. You need to apologize for calling James douchebag.”  
  
“No, I really don’t,” Kendall replies brightly, turning his face to the light.  
  
“What happened to your eye?” Kelly asks immediately, flooded with concern. The big, black bruise marring half of Kendall’s cheekbone and shading his eye socket definitely was not there last night at rehearsals.  
  
“Funny story. I tried to fix things with James this morning.”  
  
“James didn’t mention that.”  
  
“Gee, it must have slipped his mind,” Kendall drawls irritably. “He was at the pool with Aubrey Stewart and her entourage.”  
  
“I thought they broke up.”  
  
“Apparently their relationship’s demise was short lived,” Kendall says, falsely cheerful. “I tried to ask what I did wrong, and James threw a copy of this at my head –“ he brandishes a copy of the Hollywood Herald at Kelly – “and then sicced Aubrey’s bodyguards on me.”  
  
Kelly rubs the bridge of her nose. “He thinks you and Jo are getting married.”  
  
Kendall’s eyes bug out. “I haven’t talked to Jo in months.”  
  
“According to this,” Kelly pries the magazine from his clawed fingers and flips open to the blind items page, “You’re about to be joined with her in nuptial bliss.”  
  
Kendall’s lips move silently as he reads the blurb. He asks, “Isn’t this about Serena Martinez?”  
  
“That’s what I said.” Kelly slumps back against the kitchen counter. “Kendall, James is…a really unique individual. Who is apparently very concerned about your love life.”  
  
“He needs to mind his own fucking business,” Kendall mutters darkly, cracking his knuckles against his knees.  
  
“He was worried you were going to break up the band.”  
  
That stops Kendall in his tracks, hurt spasming across his face before he can catch it and tuck it away in the deep, dark void brimming with all of the things that make him angry at the drop of a pin. He’s a lot like Gustavo in his complete unwillingness to show weakness, which makes them both all the more vulnerable when they’re caught off guard. It makes Kelly feel fond and less homicidal.  
  
“I would never do that.”  
  
“I know that. And you know that. But James lives in Diamondlandia, where sometimes he gets his signals crossed, and so he doesn’t know that. You need to tell him.”  
  
Kendall crosses his arms defensively. “I shouldn’t have to.”  
  
“Hey. This wouldn’t be the first time you’d left him high and dry.”  
  
Kendall winces in recollection. “That’s low, Kelly.”  
  
Kelly lifts her shoulders in mock surrender. “Sometimes, kid, you’ve got to suck it up.”  
  
“But-“  
  
“Ah-ah. Make it right.”  
  
“I-“  
  
“Make. Things. Right.”  
  
Resignedly, Kendall agrees, “Yeah. Fine.” He bares his teeth to demonstrate how unhappy backing down makes him. “As long as Aubrey and her bodyguards have gone home.”  
  
Kelly beams.  
  
“They have. I was down there a little while ago.” She brushes off the knees of her pantsuit and stands, ready to impart one last bit of wisdom.  
“James really hates the idea of being left alone. Let him know you’re not going anywhere. Maybe he’ll apologize too.”  
  
Kendall softens, the angles of his face melting into sweetness and golden light. He says, “Abandoning James hasn’t ever crossed my mind.”  
  
Not for the first time, Kelly wonders how these boys ended up so sweet. She wishes she had friends that loved her half as much as the guys care about each other. But she supposes, in a way, she does. She has _them_.  
  
Kendall says, “I’ll talk to James. But could you, uh, maybe talk to Katie?”  
  
“About what?”  
  
He grimaces. “She’s dating Puppy Dog.”  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
“Say no more. I’m on it.” Charitably, she squeezes Kendall’s shoulder. “I don’t want to hear Gustavo breathe another word about your feelings for at least a week.”  
  
She doesn’t wait around to watch Kendall’s obedient salute. No way he’s going to be able to keep that promise anyway. 

\---  
 _3 PM_  
\---

  
“Katie. Dating Puppy Dog is a bad idea.”  
  
“Oh, I know,” Katie replies breezily, more interest in her ongoing video game than anything Kelly has to say.  
  
“Puppy Dog is a brat.”  
  
Katie doesn’t bother looking up from her game screen. “Puppy Dog is filthy rich. He’s going to kickstart my hedge fund.”  
  
“You can’t date a boy for his money. That’s wrong.”  
  
“I’m not.” Katie spares a single moment to throw Kelly a wintry glare. “The money’s a side benefit. He’s a really good kisser.”  
  
“Katie!”  
  
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to give me the sex talk. My mom already stuttered her way through that.”  
  
“You’re thirteen!”  
  
“And smart enough to know better. Like I said, never fear. I’m saving myself for Dak Zevon.” Katie smirks.  
  
Kelly chokes on her own spit.  
  
Yeah, she isn’t touching that one with a ten foot pole. Kendall is on his own.

  
_\---  
4 PM_  
\---

  
“All I want, _all_ I want is to do one video.”  
  
“Narrating on the existence of Bigfoot. How can you refuse to believe in ghosts but you believe in yetis?”  
  
“Bigfoot is not a yeti!” Logan gasps. Enunciating his words the way he only does when he is feeling particularly harassed, smug, or both, he tells her, “Come on, I’m having a bad day. I just scored a guest judge role on Hollywood’s Next Top Plastic Surgeon. I got scammed out of fifty bucks by Katie. And I am really really really really really really really really sick of Kendall and James bickering.”  
  
Carefully, Kelly asks, “Do you know what they’re fighting about?”  
  
She’s ready to dispel all rumors of marriage. But Logan throws his hands up in the air, his soda flying out of one and landing with a crack against the record studio’s vending machine. “They keep stomping around and slamming doors and neither of them will listen to me the way they know they should because I’m a genius or take my advice. Which they should. Because I’m a genius.”  
  
“You’re very smart.” Kelly pats his arm soothingly. She’s always thought that if the doctor thing doesn’t work out for Logan, he’d be great in a high level management position at one of Hollywood’s many corporations or agencies. He fits the bill exactly; intelligent, impressed with his own intelligence, and prone to tantrums when nobody else is impressed with how very intelligent he is. “And the guest judge position is going to be great PR for the band. Bravo!”  
  
She performs a slow clap that’s more for Logan’s benefit than a result of any genuine excitement on her part. It’s not any of the boys’ first cameos on reality television, and it likely will not be the last.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, it’s super,” Logan agrees with a forcible exhalation. “It’d be more super if I wasn’t short fifty bucks. I’m thinking about donating my sperm.”  
  
Kelly chokes on her fifth cup of coffee. “You’re what?”  
  
“They’ll pay me a hundred dollars for it. I’m good stock.”  
  
“Logan. No, you’re right. There are too many risks involved. What if one of my progeny grows up to be too smart? What if he – or she,” he corrects guiltily, not prepared to risk insulting his prospective daughter, “Invents something.”  
  
“Something?”  
  
“Like SkyNet. What if my kin herald the apocalypse?”  
  
“You watch too many movies, sweetie.”  
  
“Or-”  
  
Stomach sinking, Kelly echoes, “Or?”  
  
She did not allot enough time for this on her schedule.  
  
“Or my future child could bring about world peace. The might end famine. Plagues. Droughts. House music. Can I deny the Earth that? I don’t think I can, Kelly. It wouldn’t be fair.”  
  
“Would it be fair if you asked Katie for your money back?”  
  
Eyes dancing, Logan bites back a grin. “If I do, I might be saving the world. But.”  
  
Groaning on the inside, Kelly prompts, “But?”  
  
“I tried that already. She’s stubborn. Like her brother.” He falls back into his funk, sparing a mournful glance at his fallen soda before trying to bang a new one futilely out of the vending machine.  
  
Kelly sighs. “Okay. I’ll ask Katie for your money back. Tomorrow.”  
  
She expects that Katie will laugh in her face.  
  
“Cool,” Logan grins wide. “You’ll talk to Kendall and James, too, right?”  
  
Kelly heaves a sigh. Yes, Logan. I already spoke to them and they said they’ll stop arguing. Is there anything else I can do?”  
  
Logan thinks it over. “Buy me a coke? Thanks, Kelly, you’re the best.”

  
_\---  
5 PM_  
\---

  
“What’s this I hear about my boys posing naked in a calendar?”  
  
“They won’t be naked, Mrs. Knight.”  
  
“It says on the internet that they will.”  
  
Kelly spins in her office chair, watching the clock on her desk tick by the minutes. She says idly, “You can’t believe everything you read online.”  
  
Jennifer Knight is a sensible woman. She’ll understand that.  
  
“Why would the internet lie to me? I’m coming over there.”  
  
Or not.  
  
“That is really not necessary, I swear, the boys won’t be posting- Mrs. Knight? Hello? _Hello_?”

\---  
 _6 PM_  
\---

  
Kelly drags her feet on her way out to her car. Kendall’s mom is a scary, scary lady who flat out refused to believe that her son would not be au natural on the cover of Help Honduras’s charity calendar until she was allowed to talk to the photographer himself. Who happened to be a very famous, very rich man.  
  
Who then asked Jennifer out on a date.  
  
Kelly feels a bit used.  
  
She fiddles with her keys, intent on a very fun night of dinner and her bed when she hears, “Hey, pretty lady. Looking for a ride home?”  
  
“I’ve got my own car, Dak.”  
  
“Yeah, but you bought it used. Why would you drive hand me downs when you can sit in the passenger seat of this.” Dak waves a hand over the driver’s side door of his gleaming black Escalade.  
  
“Pass.” She stares at her keys in her hand. “You need to stop swinging by here every night.”  
  
“You don’t like it?”  
  
“It’s not that. A reporter’s going to catch you. They’ll think-“  
  
“That I like a beautiful woman?” He asks, always too-smooth. He lowers his voice. “Come on, Kelly. You know you want to let me give you a ride home.”  
  
Kelly considers. “Can we stop for a burger on the way?”  
  
Dak smirks. “Your wish is my command.”  
  
She climbs into the SUV as gracefully as she can manage, which isn’t much. Dak doesn’t mind. He never seems to care when Kelly isn’t perfect, and he never, ever expects her to do anything other than enjoy his company. Dak is pretty great.  
  
Except for the part where he’s famous, cocksure, and convinced that he’s the most attractive man on the face of the Earth.  
  
He faces her with that same stupid grin playing over his lips and says, “I missed you today.”  
  
“I didn’t think about you at all.”  
  
“Let me take you out on a real date,” he pleads earnestly, cupping her cheek. “We’ve been hiding for months.”  
  
“You mean you don’t think cheeseburgers are romantic?” She asks in mock horror.  
  
He kisses her then, soft and sweet. His lips taste like lemon chap stick and something more familiar, a Dak-ness that Kelly is still getting used to. She drops the seatbelt she’s been fiddling with and slides over the gear shift to perch on his lap, admitting between the touch of his lips, “You wouldn’t believe what I had to put up with today.”  
  
Dak’s hands settle at her waist, firm and comforting. He kisses her deeper and mumbles, “Tell me all about it.”

  
_\---  
5 AM_  
\---

  
Kelly answers her door, firmly committed to killing whoever keeps pounding on it. She can’t even muster up an inkling of surprise when she finds Gustavo on her welcome mat, clad in a fuzzy green robe and Incredible Hulk slippers that the boys bought him for his birthday.  
  
Exhausted, Kelly murmurs, “It’s five in the morning.”  
  
Then she notices the three magazines cradled in Gustavo’s arms. He shoves them in Kelly’s face and growls, “We’re on the clock.”  
  
Blearily, Kelly scans the headlines. The first and tamest of the bunch is from the Hollywood Herald, the front page spread declaring that Aubrey Stewart and pop music playboy James Diamond are expecting twin bundles of joy. Kelly blinks. “This is the fifth baby mama story a tabloid’s run about James since January. What’s the problem?”  
  
“Keep going,” Gustavo instructs.  
  
It takes her a full minute to figure out what’s happening on the slightly more legitimate front page of Star Spotter magazine, because there is a lot of skin. And abs. And nipples. Forcing the faces to come into focus takes her another minute.  
  
Her eyes flick to the headline, extolling _Big Time Rush’s Big Gay Scandal_. Kelly gnaws on the inside of her lip, trying not to stare.  
  
“When I told Kendall to make up with James, this isn’t exactly what I meant. Are these legit?”  
  
Tensely, Gustavo replies, “Probably.”  
  
“We can spin it.” They’re in a boy band. No one will be surprised. Kelly can go back to sleep. She begins to shut the door.  
  
Gustavo shoves his foot in it.  
  
“We can,” he concedes. “Once you talk to the reporters who keep hounding me, demanding to know if Kendall Knight knew he was gay _before_ or _after_ he proposed to Jo Taylor.”  
  
“The blind item wasn’t about him!”  
  
“The rest of the world is going to have to wait a week to figure that out,” Gustavo whines back. “Read the last one.”  
  
Kelly flips to the final magazine, which is straight up the front cover of People. She’s about to ask how they picked up the gay story so fast, when she realizes these photos are different, grainy shots of a familiar SUV. Kelly announces, “I’m going to murder Dak.”  
  
Gustavo says, “Kill him, burn him, and make sure you hide the body.” He hesitates. “Are you okay?”  
  
“Super.”  
  
“Super,” he says. “So which story are you going to tackle first?”  
  
Kelly considers.  
  
“It’s five o’clock in the morning.”  
  
“You keep saying that.”  
  
Decisively, Kelly hands him back the tabloids. Then she shuts the door in his face, ignoring his bellow of, “Fix it” through the wood.  
  
“Later,” Kelly yells back, stalking towards her bedroom.  
  
She falls into the waiting arms of her comforter, cuddling up to her pillows. She shoves the issue of People in front of Dak’s face. Bleary eyed, he peers at it, with a declaration of, “You look beautiful in print.”  
  
“You’re a jackass.”  
  
“You love me anyway.”  
  
She huddles closer to his warmth and mutters, “I can’t figure out why.”  
  
Dak turns his most charming smile on her and yes, that’s exactly why. He says, “We should look into getting you a bigger apartment.”  
  
“I like this one just fine.”  
  
“Maybe a bigger bed, then,” he says sleepily, already drifting away. He stretches out his legs and tangles them with Kelly’s. There, among the noises of LA traffic and the familiar rumble of her air conditioning, Kelly Wainwright snuggles into him, smiling.  
  
Today is going to be a really, really long day, which she is totally capable of handling, but. For now she doesn’t have anything to fix or anybody to lecture. Maybe she’ll go in to work late.  
  
It’s not like the Hollywood Herald won’t still be there at nine.


End file.
